Not much is known about Lennet Radaczik. A long time ago, far to the North, she crawled down from the mountains, battered and bleeding. The left side of her face was scarred by the blow of a morningstar. Her bones were broken from a fall. She was barely alive, and what medical care the poor of the nameless village could spare should not have been enough to save her. But it was.

The blow had hurt her, more than on the surface. It had done something to her brain. She couldn’t move her right arm or her right leg. So she limped, and learned to use her left side.

She couldn’t speak. The words came out jumbled, like they were filtered through someone else’s mouth. She was missing half her teeth. More were cracked. Now she speaks oddly--quick and without pauses--and wears dentures.

Her eye was blinded. They wanted to remove it, but she told them no. Somehow she got money, and she had it healed magically. She can see out of it, but it will always be the sickly yellow of jaundice. She had special caps made that changed the colors of her eyes.

She remained there a long while. Healing. Waiting. Watching. Years of her life spent recuperating in hovels.

You couldn’t tell, seeing her now. She looks and seems completely normal, a hale northern woman in her early thirties. Light on her feet, a ready smile. Only those who were there are the beginning remember the cold look in her eyes when she endured the pain, the determination when she fell again and again re-learning to walk.

Only those who were there when a hunter found a body on the mountainside--hacked to pieces by knives until there was nothing left for the animals, a morning star clutched in its decayed hands--remember that Lennet Radaczik is not to be trifled with.